#coco words

There's another aspect of it I find really poetic too, that comes from my personal headcanon for Sukuna-- he was born with the pieces of someone meant to be honored as Gojo was, but that was twisted and warped at birth (or before birth), and the world scorned him for it (the disgraced one, the fallen one, etc). So imo, RCT is a piece of heavy irony. He could have been a savior. He could have been a healer! He is neither, and refuses to be.

"but you look it"

“Well, aren’t you interesting,” he murmured, and tossed the blade up in the air, catching it on a finger. It balanced perfectly. “Very interesting. This is fine work.” “You honor me, Sukuna-sama.”  “I do,” Sukuna agreed, looking down. The man didn’t look up. There was a slight tremor in the arms. A cold sweat, building on the back of the neck. Easy to see with the man folded to the ground.  “Are you afraid?” A swallow. A shaking.  “Yes,” the man admitted, “but I’m fine with fear if I make better blades because of it.” Sukuna laughed. “I like you, smith. Your name?” “Munechika.” Sukuna would remember it.  “Finish preparing the blade,” he ordered.  There was a gulp. Loud. But the man’s hands didn’t shake as he reached for his tools, the sword, taking the flat edge of wood to clay, and then to the blade.  Sukuna settled back and watched.  The man— Munechika— was careful. He didn’t rush. A thick layer across the spine, the body. Little rivulets down, to the edge. Like ribs, reaching for the open air.  “It will take a while for it to dry, Sukuna-sama.” “It won’t,” Sukuna corrected, and opened the gaping maw of his flame. It unfolded into his hand, a painting of heat and sharp divinity.  The man took a sharp breath, looking up. Sukuna would forgive it.  He opened his palm, and the flame licked out, drying the clay in an instant. He didn’t heat the blade, not yet. He was interested in a blacksmith, not a pile of char. “Get ready,” he ordered, and so the man did. A set of tongs clamped the tang, and then the man held out the blade. An offering from penitent to god.  Sukuna drenched it in flame.

It was a warm day for spring, or so Satoru claimed. Sukuna didn’t know. Couldn’t tell. One of many downsides to the body of a curse, formed and painted at his command. Oh, there was a raw physicality to this form. Twenty fingers made him just as much man as curse, and Sukuna had taken steps to make that take. But still, some things were lost to him. The heat, the cold. The warmth of meat, the quench of water. Gone.  It annoyed him. “…and that’s why you shouldn’t incinerate the next phone I get you.”  “Unconvincing,” Sukuna drawled, and ran four hands over what was his. He didn’t feel heat, but he could feel Satoru.  A body unmarked by scars. Long, long legs, made for spreading, for wrapping around Sukuna’s waist. There was a thick irony to that. The one blessed under the heavens bent so perfectly for the disgraced one. Disgraced, he thought, amused. As if anyone had the strength to judge him lacking. Not even Satoru had that right.  The man was bare and sprawling, leaning back against Sukuna’s chest, head tilted up to watch him. Six eyes, unblinking. Satoru didn’t need to look, to see. Sukuna knew that.  And yet, still, Satoru watched.  “You’re not getting hooked on gacha, are you?"